A year ago around this time, I was sitting in an increasingly cold apartment in Northeast DC, thinking about the possibility of repeat homelessness. I'd already been in a shelter once, we will not go there as to why and how this happened, this blog is not about that. Suffice to say, I didn't want to repeat that experience, especially with a child in tow. I'd had enough of shelter workers who really didn't need to be with people they despised so much, endless bedbugs and food that gave you the shits. I'd had enough of social workers who refused to sign a simple paper that would have secured my ability to live on my meager disability in a better part of the metro area. For some reason people think that because I keep a smile on my face and get SSDI, I'm fucking rich. Um, no. I just value material things less than you do, and I know how to budget....now. Poverty taught me some things.
I still run out of money before the month is half over, though. I just don't waste it on petty things (anymore). Illness and facing my own mortality taught me what I could take with me when I leave this earth (love), and I seek to cultivate that now. Many, many lessons learned on that score.
I weathered another painful and lonely Christmas, wondering what I was going to do come June. I eventually came to the conclusion that I had to leave the area I had grown up in. For many reasons. The primary one being that I was surrounded by people who didn't believe in me. At least that was how I felt. The phone that didn't ring, the door that rarely opened to see a smiling face, those who thought my problems were just drama...all these things led me to believe that a life of isolation in the midst of plenty, surrounded by people who didn't understand that I had no bootstraps to use to pick myself up with, was not for me.
I sat down in the New Year and considered where I could take myself and my son on literally no money. Because I was unwise with what I had been given as back pay (freedom is intoxicating), and I couldn't stay where I was.
The decision came down to Utah. A place I originally thought I'd never move to, and a place I was warned about moving to. Turns out my friends' admonitions were correct, but I have slowly been developing a resolve within myself to stay here and do my best to change some shit. Because it's not easy being here.
But how did I get to where I am now?
In May of this year, I hopped on a plane with my son, with only a duffle bag of clothes and two backpacks. I left the entire household I had built back East. A household I had built with all that back pay. My first independent residence. My dream home that turned to a nightmare, after realizing that I was dealing with a buffoon who wished he was something he wasn't. Someone who pandered to people who would never see him as their equal, all for the sake of a dollar.
I went into this place with high hopes, and found myself disillusioned within months. I endured it, and made my way out of that self-imposed hell...to Utah.
Why Utah? Well, I had a bit of a formula. No family (I was tired of being defined by them)+ (what I thought was) a decent school district + one or two people I knew I could count on in a pinch + Ogden Utah. I was told it was diverse enough for me not to have to really worry about racism. I'm burning away the last vestiges of my naivete with regards to this. While Ogden and the surrounding area is about as diverse as it's going to get for Utah, I still dealt with my share of asshats. I will touch on those people in later blogs. Needless to say, my poverty and desperation for a place to land safely, plopped me down in the same type of situation I was facing back East: some troglodyte who felt that they were better than me, when they had absolutely no reason to, who felt their petty problems were justification enough to take my money unscrupulously.
It got old really quickly. The loneliness got old really quickly. It always does, but time and time again I return to it at some point, like a faithful lover. Strange, but my loneliness no longer abuses me. It doesn't tell me I'm not worth anything, it doesn't peel away slivers of my spirit, like it used to. We've fought long enough that it knows that I choose it, and it doesn't choose me. Because eventually I get tired of the workings of human nature, and my inner misanthrope starts screaming for freedom again.
However, one night in the first week of July, I sent a prayer out into the Universe that I wouldn't be alone much longer. Being disabled and raising a disabled child alone honestly limits your life. If you are a good parent, you put your child first. And for years, my life has been it's own version of Groundhog Day; a daily repetition of things I really would like to see changed, but didn't have the power to on my own. I loathed my life, but I loved my son, so I kept living said life. I had to.
And along comes love in such an unlikely place. Imperfect, but steadfast love. It's changing me, it's changed my son. It's changing my worldview, and I can't say it's for the better, because of the environment in which it is growing. Rocky soil, indeed.
I was introduced to my intended by a former mutual friend. I let the chick go once it became clear that she was a user of people, addicted to what she could pilfer off of folks, rather than obtaining on her own. Being that I have had to struggle so for my independence, I couldn't stomach her. I eventually got my intended to see what she (and others) has (have) been doing. Day by day, he sees how the distance benefits him. I'm not the type to go in and rearrange someone's life, but I will encourage the underdog to greatness, and that is what I am trying to do in his life now.
I'll never forget the night we met. It was in the wee hours, I had him sneak in, because my pseudo-landlord watched my every move. She did so even more once he became a fixture in my life. Cowboy hat on his head, flowers in his hand and a sheepish grin on his face, we fell in love. Well, he was already in love, but I am a devoted acolyte of skepticism. I'll only believe it when I see it. Call me Doubting Thomasina, I don't care. I've relied on what I had yet to see (and been burned) far too many times. And while our situation isn't perfect, it's not rife with the struggles I had in past relationships. For the first time in my life I'm truly cherished and respected, instead of abused or put down for the material things I don't have.
We came to know each other until the sun climbed its way in the sky, and I don't regret my choice. In moments of fear I have, but only for a second, and only because of what we are surrounded by.
I am a black woman, who is well aware of white supremacy....who is marrying a white man. We exist. We're still angry about what we see and experience, but we live in a microcosm of anomaly. And we're happy here.
Getting to know my intended has been a learning experience. I am a woman who only recently came to know of her own intelligence. I was raised to think I was simple and gullible. And I still have some of those traits. Old habits die hard. As much as I don't want to be (as a rule), I am still way too trusting. My intended is someone who literally has a ball and chain around his ankle in the form of his past, and those who refuse to let him forget it. He has not seen the extent of the world that I have, and honestly, I've seen very little. He has seen even less. He has exchanged narrow views for love of me, as well as my son, and for that I will always hold him in my heart. His family has accepted me and I believe that they love me as well. I love them. They are an extension of the support system I have out here. I know for some of them, it's not easy getting to know me. But they try. That's more than some do. That's more than many have done.
But after the glow of being surrounded by some of America's most beautiful scenery wore off, after the rodeo season was done, and once we began to get down to the business of daily life, I began to look down to the faces I would come to meet. Honestly, most that have come in close proximity have been open and kind. They have at least given me the benefit of the doubt, even if they still have doubts about who I am. If you give me the chance to talk to you, without your showing fear or rudeness, I am grateful for that. This is hard for some people to do, on all sides of this mess we call a country. But there have been many who have not done this.
Given that I have often not had the chance to be myself, much less even be tentatively accepted, I am of the belief that there is more than just the surface hostility to a person. Lord knows that's often what I show, when the weight of carrying this decrepit and diseased body gets to be too much. My journey towards self knowledge was a solitary one, and in coming to know myself fully, I have come to better understand human nature. Forgive me, but I have this curious affliction that causes me to empathize with my enemies. Because they are pitiful, even when they are evil. And most of my life has seen me in a posture of being pitiful. I grieve for my old self, as much as I grieve for these people who are still asleep to the horrors we perpetuate against one another daily. We are killing each other. We are raping the planet. We arrogantly think that we are somehow the pinnacle of nature, and yet nature defies us each day, showing us things like teamwork and compassion.
I wonder if we will ever get to a point as a species, where we aren't constantly hurting each other for one reason or another. Some of us seek to conquer others, and some of us don't realize that we are in a prison made both of our perceptions as well as the dangerous ones others hold...and we hurt ourselves, as well as our physical and cultural families. As a person who watches more than she speaks, I am hurt by the things I see. I am afraid for the fruit of my womb, that he must live in this. I am afraid for future fruit, that things might be even worse (and I can't see it) once they come into life.
Since moving here, I have been followed in stores by strangers who didn't work there...because in their eyes, black people do many bad things, among them stealing. Amazing, the number of self-promoted vigilante enforcers of their perverted view of justice out there. May my young brothers and sisters who lost their lives to such people rest in peace and power. I think of you when I look at my son.
I have had my child devalued in school, only to be abused by someone who was supposed to protect him. He bears a scar from that day on his body. I'm hoping the scars have faded from his mind.
I have met many a wary and hostile glance with a smile, not because I pander to respectability politics, but because I respect myself as a lady, and I will not readily stoop to the level of the ignorant. Having my IQ tested by the welfare office because I told them I was disabled, proved otherwise. I will never forget that day two years ago, when I realized my own potential for the first time. I was arrogant as fuck that day. And I still tap into that from time to time, when dealing with the willfully ignorant. You see, those folks I dealt with back east thought that black plus disability plus welfare had to mean cognitive delay. Welp....it's on paper now. What do you have to say? If I'm smarter than 98% of the people on this planet, there's a good chance I'm smarter than you, welfare worker. You will respect me. You will watch as your labels slide off my body as I look at you with a smile. I am not what you think, and my circumstances do not diminish my promise, or my power to influence this world. You just value the wrong things. Not my problem.
I have gone to shake someone's hand....only to see them hesitate, because it's obvious that they have never touched someone like me (a woman of color). I have not shown my dismay at this on my face, because I am not weak, and you will see and acknowledge the cultured lady that I am....brown skin and all.
I have watched people, who now know me a bit more, gaze at me with a look on their face that said, "what are you doing here?" As if people of color only fraternize with whites, the better to inspect their stocks and dividends. Thanks, but if I choose to establish wealth, it will be on my own terms, with my own talents, and there is no material thing you possess that is worth my freedom or dignity. You're coming to learn that now, and I see it in your eyes, how much it intimidates you.
I have endured stares in the grocery store, as well as many other public places. And while I am beautiful, that wasn't why they were staring. Those who gawped at me could not understand how a self-respecting cowboy would be seen with a black woman. They marveled at our happiness, and at the giggles of the child situated between us.
So far, no one has come outright and called me outside my name. Though I know it will come. And when it does, I will educate the fool who does it. Still, it's the things that go unsaid that bother me the most.
I have created a tentative niche in the most unlikely of places. In a state that has a population of less than one percent when it comes to black people. A state dominated by a belief system that denied black men the right to hold their priesthood until 1978, when the federal government threatened to snatch the reigning church's tax exempt status. Behold, a revelation from the Lord: Black men, the group affected by this (if you don't consider ALL women, but that's another subject for someone else's blog) were quite suddenly worthy of passing out the wonderbread on Sunday. Yay. Still didn't change perceptions. But I can't blame this faith alone for what I see out here. I blame white privilege, a predominantly conservative and uninformed populace and insular behavior for what I still see and what I have experienced.
I will not lie. It has gotten to me. Helping my intended to look past his past, and see that he has a future, while dealing with people who felt he was with me because he can't do any better, has worn on me. Watching him suffer, while seeing the covert and critical glances of the ignorant has burned more than I've shown. Logging on to social media each day and seeing yet another black person brutalized, maimed or killed by white supremacy has had me wondering what the fuck I'm doing out here. Because it's no different here. It's just not as called out here, because most of the people in this state belong to the mindset of those who seek to justify these deaths, these beatings, these character defamations. They control the media, and they believe if those who look like me would just shuffle and jive a little harder, our lives would be better. If we would just conform a little more, and be a little less visible in our brownness, our lives would be easier. But it's not that easy.
I am a left-leaning Independent in a staunchly red state. I'm lucky that I'm attached to a family that is so well loved in my community. Still, I'm attached at the hip to the black sheep of said family, and to many that means something. He couldn't do better than a black woman. They don't say it, but I see it in their eyes. They don't believe he'll ever amount to much. Sadly, those of my generation and those before who struggle with mental illness or learning disabilities (or both) weren't blessed to have the knowledge and advancements in understanding and treatment that children today have. I know for a fact that if my son were born when I was, he'd be in prison now, if not dead. His behavior would have just been used to label him as a bad seed. He would have been socially promoted through school, at the same time he was being socially ostracized. I know men who have gone through this, and they are broken now, shells of what they could be, sitting in basements and drinking their lives away. My intended had his own hard road to travel, as I have had mine. Still, in talking with him late at night about his experiences, as much as he has messed up, struggled and suffered, I see, and I'm beginning to get him to see, how his white skin kept him alive.
I am waking him up to the realities of what it means to love me in this place. That it's not as simple as losing a few inbred friends. That it's a fact that our children will be black, and at risk, if he doesn't wake up. That he has influence, and luckily, he's not afraid to say what he thinks. That he might change minds. That his love obligates him to stand up for us. For me, for my son (who he considers his son), and for any children we may have. He's beginning to see, slowly, that this nation is absolutely fucked up, built upon the backs and blood of the people whose culture he admires. Because I have zero problems with white people appreciating the culture of POC. Zero. I don't always jive with appropriation, but if you can see beauty in us, please don't stop. One day someone you know may see your gaze and follow it...and come to see us for what we are truly worth like you do.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not out for approval. I have zero fucks to give when it comes to whether or not someone likes me. Most of my life I've been an outcast. Eventually I learned to love it, and these days the feeling of not having my head bent is euphoric. But I have given birth, and my son is not going to travel the same path that I did. It's not possible, he's not living my life. He cannot live my life, as his life's canvas is only in my possession for preparation, not artwork. The proverbial painting will be up to him. And I desire to spare him the pain that I have been so intimate with. If this means showing people his glory, his intelligence, then so be it.
I am not afraid for me. If I had never had children, I'd be oblivious to all this out here. I'm afraid for his life, and I don't know how best to protect it, other than to show people why I cherish him. Why they should. Why his life has value as much as anyone else's. And why they should not just cherish his life because they know him, but because he's human, too. Not only that, he's so full of promise it literally seeps out his pores. To know him is to love him. But to not know him should not be an excuse to abuse, malign or even kill him. I fear that. I really do. I have ever since Travyon Martin lost his life over some bullshit. That was the wake-up call for me, the thought that some person drunk on fear and a sense of privilege would mistake my son's innocent actions for a threat, and take his life. I am not the only one who has this fear.
Not very long ago at all, I sat out on my future in-law's back porch and looked out at the idyllic scene before me. I listened to the lowing of cows, the ruckus the chickens made when someone's cat got at them. I gazed at the mountains and the sky. And while I felt grateful that my life's path had led me to experience for myself such natural beauty, I also grieved for all of those who would never breathe air as fresh as this...who would never know what a camp fire felt like. Hell, I'd never had s'mores before about a month ago. Seriously. And that artificial pop tart shit they have in the store, or anything s'more flavored cannot prepare you for a real one. Especially with dark chocolate. Let me pause to OM NOM NOM. Okay, I'm back in my right mind again.
All summer I rode through these canyons and felt blessed. To be away from my past (because it's such a distant memory now), to be able to actually get out of the prison that was my home in Ogden and have fun. To see my son smile and open up truly for the first time in his life. He's so different now, and those who have watched him grow marvel as much as I do. But at the same time I thought about the systems that are in place in this nation that keep black people largely confined to urban areas, where our diversity cannot reach those who need to know about it most. And honestly, does it reach those who live along side us? Apparently not. I used to live near the place in this article, and I can tell you from experience that women like this fool are legion. They literally stake out certain parts of the city, certain parks, certain restaurants...transplants to DC from hell knows where, who are literally learning nothing by living in the midst of such diversity. They turn a blind eye. All day, every day. My old apartment was on a boundary line, I swear. I walk out my door, turn left and there's white-dominated affluence, streets clean of everything except the random cigarette butt and the dog shit these people were too privileged to pick up. Turn to my right, and there's ample trash and broken glass on the street, the stench of piss, homeless people, drunks and more black people than any other race. Children coming home from school horsing around alongside people who had long since given up on life, while being alive hadn't given up on them.
Our society here in this country would have you think that this was intentional, bred from a genetic flaw inherent in all black people, to utterly fail at life. Those who don't are a deviation from the norm,which while admirable, are exceedingly rare. They don't want you to see the man behind the curtain, that is the systems, political and social, long put in place to keep my brothers and sisters this way.
In this fertile valley out here, I have felt the sting of racism more than I ever have. It was kind of easy to ignore in DC, where many couples were gay or interracial, or even from another nation altogether. It was easy to get lost in the shuffle, isolate and ignore the one or two people who dared to be ignorant. Well, sometimes. Sometimes that ignorance touched my son, and I could not forget.
But out here....it's in my face. It stays in my face. And I can't help but replay in my mind words from the scriptures that are held in such esteem here. Ones I have read myself many times.
All nations, kindreds, tongues and people...
Um....that means me, too. You are going to get used to me. I will be your proverbial wedgie, that rock in your shoe, the spinach in your teeth. I am going to make you feel uncomfortable until you deal with me...as a person, and not just your sheltered idea of what I am.
Into the wee hours of this morning, I lay and talked with my intended. We spoke of the most recent victims of police brutality in this country, who are young and black. We spoke of our individual perceptions of the police. He admitted that though he had been incarcerated, at no time did he fear for his life. I told him that due to what I had experienced as a victim who happened to be black, every time I see a cop come too close, my gut instinct is to fear for my life. We spoke of our future, the child we now love as a couple, and the ones we hope to have. He sees my enthusiasm for his progress, and he knows I am one of the few people who sees who he truly is. I have taken a man who thought the confederate flag was just something they had on Dukes of Hazzard, and awoken him to the reality of what it represents, as well as what I and my son face every day. I've watched him stand up for us, even in front of family.
For a minute, I thought about running away from this fight. About leaving this valley, and heading to some haven where cannabis was legal, so at least I could check out from these horrors. But I realized that to run away would be to concede defeat. And so I stay...educating these people one at a time. "All nations, kindred, tongues and people" means me too, damn it.
Get used to it.
Boo, bitches. Boo.
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